A Mirrored Reflection : Charity Begins at Home
by EleanorKate
Summary: A two chapter story. One belonging to Chummy; the other to Peter. A short exploration of two very different, but yet so similar children - with a touch of Christmas thrown in. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Quick_ feet would take her down the long flight of stairs from her cosy top floor bedroom.

 _Silent_ feet, wrapped up snugly only in socks – those ones with the lace frilly edge that she loved – tumbled down past the vast Christmas tree that adorned the hallway, into the narrow passageway that led to the kitchen; a place where she knew Mater never ventured for fear of what she didn't know. Chummy was sure her mother was sound asleep, creeping past her bedroom, knowing the one floor board that squeaked as she stepped carefully over it, toes pointed and cautious for the slightest sign.

No, Mater was asleep. The Ayah was asleep too – Chummy had conducted a perfectly executed escape from her captor - and Pa? Well, he was in the bedroom around the corner and her journey would take her nowhere near so as long as his door was shut that was all that would trouble her. He'd take no notice if Mater scolded her anyway for being out of bed so early in the morning, even though it was Christmas Day and surely even he could excuse some excitement? She had already cast an eye over the present that had been left by her bedside, ripping away a small corner of paper to reveal the words of Lewis Carroll. Chummy did, however, have more important issues to be considered as she crept along the corridor.

Her current cargo, saved and smuggled, sat heavy in the pocket of her dressing gown and Chummy, placing her hand inside – just to make entirely sure in her apprehension that it was still there - could hear a gentle vibration of conversation from the kitchen. Hopefully, she'd find her there. It was the right time in the morning after all and the staff were always precisely on time. Mater would not have it any other way and woe betide anyone who arrived even seconds later.

"Aanisah?" she whispered in no more than a breath, just standing inside the kitchen door, her voice barely audible above the tap as it tumbled water into the sink. "Aanisah?"

The girl, with sandal shod feet and dressed in an immaculately pressed mud brown frock spun around, hands soaking and accidentally spraying water all over the stone floor in her shock.

"I'm sorry Miss" the servant girl replied, bobbing her head slightly, panic coursing through her seeing the drips on the floor and the sight of the Lady's daughter in her dressing gown, dreading her noticing the mess she had created. "I didn't hear you come down the staircase Miss".

Her English was perfect; but heavy with accent. Mater had insisted that all the staff learn English. It didn't strike Chummy to insist particularly as she enjoyed learning the odd word of Hindi and her stilted conversations in her eagerness. Well she knew more than an odd word if it came to it and she knew Mater didn't understand a word, so it was all the better. She also had started to learn that Mater simply didn't feel or see the need to communicate in any other way that suited _her_ and it would take her so many years to comprehend. _  
_

Chummy didn't know how old the girl was who worked in their kitchen. They were just about the same height but that really didn't mean a thing. Perhaps one of these days she might ask and wonder if they might become friends. She had so much around her and this girl, surely they were just about the same age, but here she was working away from dawn until dusk.

"Breakfast will not be ready for at least another hour Miss" the thin girl replied, nervously pulling a cloth from the kitchen table in front of her, laden heavily already with the the preparations for the families' celebrations.

"One.." Chummy began, hesitating with some speed. "I didn't come down for that. I came down to give you this….." She produced the fruit from her pocket, laying the orange flat on the palm of her hand and stretched it across the chasm of the kitchen, seeing immediately the hesitance on the girl's face not knowing quite what to make of this development. "Please, take it".

"Miss, I…" Aanisah began, looking quickly to her side as another woman; much older as she approached the larder on the opposite side of the vast room.

"Please" Chummy whispered. "I heard you talking the other day….when they were delivered….That you couldn't remember what oranges tasted like…" she continued, now too noticing the other woman pottering around singing quietly to herself. "I'd like you to have it. Really. I insist you must".

"Thank you Miss" the servant replied, going to step toward her but stopping before she took it from Chummy's hand. "Fruit isn't something that my mother can afford. Would you mind if I shared it with her Miss?" The mother was the Browne's cook – indeed the woman who had been going about her business just feet away - and Chummy could see her leaning into the vastly packed pantry to prepare breakfast for the household.

"Of course" Chummy smiled. "You can share it with who you like". A smile extended across the serving girl's face, both hearing feet come down the stairs above their heads and separating with some speed as the fruit was pushed hastily into the other girl's apron pocket and Chummy ducked into the dining room to hide until she could be sure her path upstairs was no longer unencumbered.

"The girl is called Aanisah Ma" George replied, putting the newspaper down across his knee. He may only have been twenty but with aspirations of how George Browne intended his life to be, it was essential that he kept up to date with news from London and quite frankly Mother was now becoming an annoyance in her fury. His only sister was sitting in the window seat buried in the brand new shining copy of Alice in Wonderland - her bedside present - not wanting to take a walk with her father and other brothers whilst they waited for dinner.

"It is not any of my business what the girl is called George" Lady Browne replied, spinning on her heels to face her third son. "What I do know is she must have stolen it. There is no other explanation".

George shifted in his seat. Why an orange was so important he would never know and quite frankly why it aggravated his mother so much was another to add to the ever expanding pile of misdemeanours she believed her children and staff got up to whilst her back was turned.

"Ma", he began. "She could have picked it up at the market. We do pay them wages…."

His mother huffed. "No, no" she replied, twisting her watch around her wrist. "Not this time of year. You know very well your father had them imported just last week". Chummy looked up from behind her book carefully having been listening intently whilst she pretended to read, sinking lower behind the pages as her mother's voice raised itself an octave further. "No, if one has to repeat oneself once more, the wretched girl stole it from your father's study! At the very worst from the cellar!"

"She might not have Mater" Chummy responded carefully and quietly, having listened for some time to her mother raving about the 'kitchen girl' who she has found eating what she considered was contraband. Before she could think, Chummy's voice had run away with her and jumped to the defence of this perhaps one day friend.

As she watched carefully she could see her mother almost roll her eyes. "And I do not see what business it is of yours Camilla" Lady Browne replied, wondering why on earth her youngest daughter was suddenly piping up about this blessed event. "It is certainly not your place to be questioning me young lady!"

"She might not have stolen it Mater" she repeated, on the receiving end of yet another withering look at her insolence as her mother stood in the middle of the room, arms folded tight across her middle, annoyance seeping from every pore it seemed and not only due to this apparent theft.

"Then where, Camilla" her mother asked carefully, taking a step towards her daughter, "might a servant have obtained such a prize?"

Chummy looked up as her mother turned to her fully, eyes wide under her tortoise glasses, wondering whether she should say something. "I don't know Mater" she squeaked, trying not to look at her brother who had a rather curious look on his face as he sat on the other side of the room.

"Tell me this" her mother began, stalking further over to her youngest child as Chummy shrunk back into her chair. "If she did not steal it, and as you would certainly not find an orange within thirty miles of his house, _apart_ from in your father's study, how can you explain it? Perhaps you would care to explain it to your father? See what he thinks of your answers?"

" _Yes, they were in Pa's office" Chummy thought to herself. "He gave one to me! That's how to explain it and I wanted to give it to her!"  
_

"One shall have to ask Sir Rex" her mother announced, turning quickly away again; not seeing her daughter's eyes follow her, book abandoned. Chummy had not realised her brother was watching her nervously fiddling with the hem of her dress.

 _What has my little sister been up to? It was you, wasn't it?_

"Mother, I gave it to her" George declared, straightening his shoulders seeing Chummy's head shoot up towards him. He had been on the receiving end of his mother's temper from time to time as a youngster and he had the odd scar to match his sister's.

" _You_ George?" The surprise in their mother's voice was clear and she stopped pacing up and down the carpet to turn to her son.

"Yes Mother" he replied, bravado wining out and standing up to make his point. "What are we to miss about an orange Mother? Really? Isn't it such an unnecessary drama to create, particularly on Christmas Day?"Chummy saw her brother hand touch her mother's lower arm. She'd seen her oldest brother Bob do that and it seemed to have some magical effect on their mother and the other boys seemed to be learning it too. Chummy, however, could not bring herself to do it. _Just the very thought of touching her arm..._

"You can be such a caring boy when you try George". Neither sibling was quite sure whether that was double edged compliment but George decided to take the chink of light in a positive way and that it might hopefully detract from his sister's apparent charity and disapproval of their mother. If it was his sister, he understood why in a way but why she had to insist on doing it under their own roof when she knew full well how their mother would react to such an act of well, kindness to someone who did not have as much as they did.

"I am sure Mother there is no need to talk to Pa about such trivial matters, is there?" George was standing tall and he could see his sister sitting wide-eyed, still rooted to her chair. "No more talk of theft? You know the girl and her mother are good servants to have after all and we are hardly talking the crown jewels are we?"

Lady Browne pursed her lips together and her outer armour melted for a moment at the sight of her handsome son, taller than her by several inches and jet black hair perfectly coiffured. "You are quite right George. Quite right. It is so hard to find staff and this is meant to be a day of celebration".

Chummy watched as her brother and mother walked away, the former throwing a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder at his youngest sibling. She listened carefully to the door closing and breathed a sigh of relief.

All she'd wanted to do was bring a little cheer to someone less fortunate. Well, materially less fortunate perhaps, but still, just to bring a smile to her face or let the girl know she was valued. Surely that was not such a difficult thing to understand even by her mother's standards? Just to do something nice to help or comfort and it was something, even in her thirteen years, Chummy could not ignore. She was aware of herself enough to realise that it was almost ingrained in her personality and it brought her so much peace to think she might, one day sometime in the not too distant future, not have to hide behind her brother's own charity to do as her heart desired.

One day.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been!

He was sure he could see the grey and blue stripy sock hooked on the end of his bed and he was dying to get up, peaking out one eye open and carefully glancing across the room to where his older brother was still soundly sleeping. There was a sock there too although neither Noakes boy ever really understood why Santa had to borrow their old school socks to put their presents in though. Surely if he knew he had to deliver to all these children, he would have enough to make sure?

Philip pressed his lips together and reached carefully across to the small beside table his brother had and picked up his watch. Why Peter had to wear a watch all the time he would never know. You only ever needed to know when school was finished and when to get home for tea. Still, it was useful on Christmas morning and it read just past quarter past seven. The watch carefully back where he belonged Philip slithered out of bed onto the cold floor and leant across to his brother.

"Pete!" he whispered, pulling the green sleeve of his brother's pyjamas but getting no response. "Come on!" Philip began, shaking Peter more vehemently by the shoulder, although through fear of his parents in the bedroom next door, he kept his voice low but forceful. "He's been! Santa's been! Come on! Wake up!"

"Get off!" Peter spat, pushing the annoyance away and pulling his tartan blanket back over his shoulder, not really quite realising it was the particular day in question already and that was the reason for his brother's enthusiasm. He already had an inkling that this Father Christmas person didn't exist and it was Mum and Dad that were filling their old school socks and it was Dad particularly that was drinking the brandy left on the fireplace, but for some inexplicable reason, his brother had not realised quite yet that all was not what it seemed. Surely one single person wouldn't have enough _time_ to get around all the kids in the world, even _with_ elves to help?

Peter was really not sure if his parents had been lying to him all these years or indeed why God invented brothers, particularly as the next thing he felt was a pillow coming crashing down on his head.

"Phil…get off" he replied sleepily throwing an arm out in the general direction of the assault. He didn't want to fight for fear of the thump they would both get. "Mum'll kill us!"

"No she won't" Philip responded, hugging the pillow to his chest. "She said yesterday we can sit on ve top step an' open our stockin's, remember stupid?"

The word 'stupid' was followed by the pillow crashing down on Peter's head again and, even if it was Christmas morning, there was no way on earth the eleven year old was taking that from his ten year old brother. Peter suddenly sat up in bed and grabbed the pillow away sending his brother crashing to the floor with a thump as he lost his balance; head only just missing the bed post as he landed in a heap on the rug. The older brother was about to get out of bed properly to take up matters further when the door opened suddenly.

"OI!"

Both boys froze, Philip, still lying on the floor, turning around onto his stomach to see their father standing there, still in his pyjamas with a furious look on his face.

"Sorry Dad" the pair whispered, Peter still half in half out of bed and his brother spreadeagled at this feet.

"I'm startin' to fink I should nevver 'ave told Farver Christmas you two 'ad been behavin' yourselves vis year. Open vem" he said, pointing at the two stockings, "afore 'e comes back an' takes vem away again for all vis bloody noise!"

The two boys, admonished and feeling guilty although Peter had bitten his tongue about 'Farver Christmas', crept out of their bedroom and sat on the stairs and within moments, the contents of the stockings had been piled onto the top step between them. Boiled sweets, the piece of coal that neither boy ever understood why it was in their stockings, marbles and jacks, a not so shiny new penny each, a pack of cards for Philip and a balsa wood aeroplane for Peter to construct, the veritable white sugar mouse that both boys knew would end up with Mum and at the bottom stuffed deep in the toe, Peter's prize present that he had been particularly looking forward to.

It went silently into the right pocket of his dressing gown. His brother was too engaged trying to twist to the top off his sweets to notice.

"Swop?" Peter suggested picking up his identical golden tin and the orange spirited from his brother's stocking and lingering on the landing, unwanted.

Peter crept upstairs again. Mum was washing up the breakfast dishes and, the rest of the presents now opened, he had no idea where his brother and Dad had gone. Still though, there were other things to think about as he closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, the content of the early morning sock full of presents now being spread out neatly on his bed for putting away, or as the moment now took him, consuming.

Out of his pocket, a small piece of heaven; his request for an exchange having been refused by his brother and he might add, nearly inducing another fight. There was never much money for treats; not since Lees closed down and Mum lost her second job so peeling away the skin of the orange Peter sat up on his bed and looked out of the window at the dots of rain falling from the grey sky. Although it passed cleanly over his head the reasons why, every Thursday, the house would sit in darkness and it was last night's cold left overs for tea, the boys would play hide and seek in the shadows and Dad would just worry.

For a moment Peter wondered what it might be like to have what you want when you want it. To say you would like something and it would just be there for you, like clicking your fingers and it would simply arrive no matter if it cost pennies or pounds. It made him think about what he might like if he could have anything in the world and as he looked out over the back yard, he wondered how far his imagination could take him.

A bicycle to himself. That would be nice. It wouldn't have to be a new one, no; just one where he could ride for miles on his own without a mithering brother wanting a ride on the handlebars or shoving him over when he wanted a go. Maybe a new pair of school shoes would be on the list too as the soles were going through on last years - no the years before - and perhaps, just perhaps, one of those diecast cars he saw in Coopers window last week; staring at them and knowing there was no use even asking as he would just get a look off Mum and a shake of the head off Dad. He'd be more than lucky if he ever stood with ten foot let alone owned a Silver Ghost with its sleek wing and sporting a shine you could comb your hair in, but just to have that little model would be perfect.

As he sat, savouring each piece of fruit to make it last as long as possible, Peter wondered if there were children in the world that had everything they wanted already. Where there any? He certainly didn't know any of them here, but he'd seen them up in Belgravia those times he went up to the Professor's house with Mum; wondering why they were staring at him like he was odd. Maybe it was the scuffed school shoes or that rip in the pocket of his coat that he tried to cover over with his hand as he stood silent. There was a girl there, not much older than him he thought with the longest blondest hair he had ever seen, and last time she had offered him a glass of ice cold milk. He'd taken it gladly and, as she ran off upstairs as though she shouldn't have been in the kitchen, wondered what it was like to live in a house like this, with all its walls free of damp and all that shiny brass that Mum used to complain about cleaning. He wondered whether, if you had all of this, it meant you were truly happy.

He didn't really know, couldn't compare when it came to it, but it did make him think. Still though, the little treat the bottom of the stocking was something he looked forward to every single time and right now? No complaints.

He heard feet come up the stairs and the door open tentatively.

"Mum said I 'ave to say sorry" Philip began, Peter seeing he was hiding something behind his back. "For hitting you an' for not wantin' to swop when you asked". Neither brother knew that Mum had been awake too and, still in bed, heard the exchange as they sat at the top of the stairs; half expecting to have to jump out of bed to break them up. Philip hesitantly held out the orange that had been stuffed in the bottom of his stocking Peter seeing their mother appear behind them too. "I know you like vem an' I don' so we can still swop your sweets if you want…."

Their mother knew full well they usually swopped presents, but she never let on as particularly this time it has served a purpose. "You boys need to know vat vere's a lot of kiddies vat don't get even what you get so I don' wan' to see any fightin' over anyfink hear me?" she said, placing her hands on her youngest son's shoulders. She'd seen those children up in Belgravia too with parents who had enough money to burn, hearing things she shouldn't as she scrubbed floors and dusted antiques that were worth more than her life. That was more important than presents. At least her boys could be sure of a hug or a hand to hold theirs if they were cold or frightened. Irene Noakes would make sure both of her boys could come to her if they wanted, day or night, 13 or 30 and not be like those poor little ones up the posh end of town who had all the possessions in the world but nothing they needed.

Peter had already reached across his bed, picking the other tin of sweets up and, under the watchful eye of their mother, the exchange was complete without further aggression or incident; the other orange stored carefully on Peter's bedside table and the tin beside it.

"Now 'ow about you two go an' deliver vose Christmas cards to ve neighbours eh? an' you" she said to Peter, "wash you're 'ands! I don' want soggy fingerprints all over vem cards. Neighbours'll fink I bring you boys up bad!"

"Yes Mum" Peter replied, careful not to get orange all over his bedclothes too.

"An' what do ve pair of you say?" she asked as the three trudged down the stairs.

"Sorry Mum" the boys responded genuinely.

"Good. Jus' remember vat vere's always kids worse off van you all over ve place" she replied. " _Even vose up in Belgravia_ ".


End file.
